Postmen

I like postmen. They are the winged Mercurys of our streets, Though they may not realize it. They only realize they carry letters— Of different kinds. Just letters. Letters. But they know the different kinds, By intuition, Or something.

I like postmen. You don't have to explain to them. They understand. They are gifted that way. Dowered mysteriously. If you are looking madly for a letter, They know. Without being told. If they don't bring it, their eyes say, "Sorry;" And their husky voices (usually husky; it's the weather) Say, "There's another mail from the East; Or West"—as it may be, for they know-1- "To-day." If they bring the letter—they smile in a priceless way. It is as though one of the Fates smiled at you.

I like postmen. They earn their stipend, or whatever it is. They are the King's messengers, And by the Crown they earn their stipend— Or whatever it is. If you doubt that, watch them. On bitter days watch them. On rough days, And when the silver runs away up. All weather is God's weather to them. They are always coming along, cheerily, And on time. No trips to the seaside for them. Hardly any golf. Baseball? O, yes. On holidays.

I like postmen; their unruffled spirit. They make so few mistakes, Even when the writing seems to have been done With a whisk. They are wise, these men of letters— Graduates of the School of Humanity. One I know has a limp;— Hill 70. He has four medals that he keeps in a box.

I like postmen,— Their weather-beaten faces, when they grow old; Their understanding eyes. They just appear—and disappear—without any fuss. Sometimes—like the Angels on the hill—they bring Tidings of great joy, Always they are the last link between ourselves And our own who are away. They are the winged Mercurys of the dull town, Though they may not know it. I like postmen.